


A Touch of Evil

by grumpyphoenix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Billionaire Playboy Dean Winchester, Bit of something Supernatural about Dean, Grimdark hero, M/M, Prostitute Castiel, Prostitute With a Heart of Gold, Superhero Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 22:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: The Righteous Man patrols the city at night, bringing the worst scum to justice with brutal fists. The worst of the worst whisper his name in superstitious terror. Never trust the darkness, they say, for he is one with it.  His arch nemesis is Lucifer, the crime boss so slick that nothing can stick to him. When Dean sees a fallen angel with bright blue eyes being attacked by some of Lucifer's men, he is compelled to intervene. Can he afford to lose his heart to someone who sells himself to the highest bidder?





	

Castiel shivers in the rain and ponders the best way to get inside his apartment building. 

It isn’t as if he could go through the front door, he owes too much back rent for that. His super was always too stoned to care unless he actually laid eyes Castiel, or he was getting phone calls from the building owner, in which case he had to harass him for the money. Castiel doesn’t want to run the risk that he might be sober enough to evict him. In the alleyway, he can climb up the fire escape and pry his window open, and there was certainly no one around to object or call the cops. A long string of sneezes cements his decision. 

Hoping that they didn’t know where he lived was stupid, he thinks briefly as one of them rips him from the ladder, and the other smacks him across the cheek. 

Castiel starts yelling as loudly as he can in the vain hope that someone will hear him and care enough to call for help. He kicks one of them hard in the nuts, and bites the one holding him enough to make him swear and drop him. He scrambles up and tries to run, but one of them tackles him to the alley ground, wet with rainy trash, and then hits him hard enough in the head with something. Stars explode behind his eyes, and he flounders, unable to gather his wits. The other one pulls out a gun and grimaces, pressing it to Castiel’s forehead. As he blinks helplessly up at his would be murderer, a shadowy shape falls from the roof and lands soundlessly behind the gunman. 

The next few minutes are a blur; the shadow fights both of the men at once as Castiel struggles to regain his feet and get away. His head aches though, and the ground will not stay put, lurching sideways whenever he moves. He dimly registers the other two men running away. The shadowy man strides towards him and catches him as his legs betray him and buckle. Panicking, he tries to twist and buck away, but the grip holding him is like steel, and the man murmurs soothing words at him. As he calms down, he witlessly stares at an angry red brand on the inside of the man’s arm that seems to be pulsing like the beat of a heart. 

The last thing he hears before darkness takes him is a velvety soft growl whispering, “Be still, you are safe. I have you.” 

*** 

_Rain never quite washes away the filth in this city. He can see them all from up here; drug dealers preying on the weak, desperate homeless curled up beneath any shelter they can find, whores weaving their siren songs around the souls of the lost. A loud noise draws his attention to the alleyway beneath his feet. He focuses the lens in his mask on the face of the gorgeous man hanging from the fire escape. He’s seen him before, this fallen angel, selling himself to empty eyed men in car after car. His eyes travel along the man’s body, taking in the tight jeans and the way his t-shirt hugs the finely tuned muscles in his chest. With a shiver, he turns from the sight. Nothing here for him._

_A cry for help and a scream makes him turn. Two men have the fallen angel below, beating him savagely. A wave of rage overtakes him and he jumps off the roof…_

_Much later, he thinks things over as he clings to the top of the moving subway train as it rockets through the tunnels. Those were not your usual central casting thugs, those were Lucifer’s men, he would bet anything on it. In fact, he was sure he had beaten at least one of them up before. What would they want with that beautiful…_

_He clamps down on that line of thinking almost savagely as he leaps from the moving train and tumbles into a hidden side tunnel. Climbing up the iron runs that lead to the trapdoor in the basement of his home; he tells himself that thinking that way about anyone is a distraction. He strips the suit off, reverently hanging it on the wall, obsessively lingering on startled bright blue eyes and full lips. Just as obsessively, he berates himself for it, making himself sit at the computers to check on the police scanners, his deep web search monitors. He certainly does not think about the way the angel’s body looked, helplessly cradled in his arms, or on the line of his neck. An alarm chirps quietly; it is almost morning, time to go._

_The dangerous and feared vigilante known as The Righteous Man steps through a door, and Dean Winchester, useless billionaire philanthropist comes out the other side, but even he was obsessively remembering the exact shade of the hair of the man anonymously delivered, unconscious, to the Sisters of Mercy hospital._

Sam is in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the news on his tablet, looking immaculate and too awake for five AM. Kevin putters around in the background, whistling tunelessly. His unruly hair and yesterday’s stained t-shirt speak of a whole night spent in the lab. 

“I see the Righteous Man saved an anonymous rent-boy last night from some thugs.” Sam says without looking up, eyebrow arched. 

Dean gets a mug of coffee and inhales the rich scent while he eyes his brother. “I’m not sure why you need to be sarcastic about it.” 

Sam sighs, “Because, Dean, remember Lucifer: Crime boss, murderer, all around gigantic dick? Do you not care that he’s got something big planned?” 

Dean grabs Kevin’s arm as he goes past, “Kevin, the telescopic eye worked perfectly, by the way. Do you think you could put a camera in it?” 

Kevin gives him a sleepy thumbs-up, shuffling upstairs with a donut and a pile of papers. 

Dean investigates the large donut box decorating the counter. “I remembered. Which is why I thought it was weird that two of his thugs were wasting time beating this guy up.” 

The second eyebrow joins the first. “Interesting,” Sam muses. “I wonder why. Did you get his name?” 

Dean nods absently. “His name is Castiel Novak. I looked through his apartment after I dropped him off. It was….interesting.” 

Sam makes a hand gesture to continue as he sends a text, likely to his office saying that he will be late this morning. Dean lets himself drift a little as he talks. 

“Even though he lives in a building kindly termed a ‘shit hole’, his apartment is obsessively clean. Clothing is old and well used. I suspect he buys it used to begin with, but what he can patch and mend, he does, sometimes making a pair of jeans into a work of art. He sells himself for money, but his is the soul of an artist. I think he spends most of his money on art supplies, or he steals them; using the walls of his apartment because he can’t afford canvas. The paintings on the walls are suggestive, sexual and introspective. I wish he had them on canvas so I could buy one. When he leaves, management will just paint over them. He has a laptop, password protected. He drinks…too much. His room smells like heaven.” 

Dean shakes himself out of his cloud with a ragged inhalation, only to find Sam staring at him. 

Sam rubs the bridge of his nose, “I don’t understand how you keep doing this. Don’t you remember the last time this happened? You just met him. Scratch that, you didn’t even meet him, you beat up some thugs and delivered an unconscious person to the ER. Find out why Lucifer wanted him dead, but seriously, leave whatever is going on in that head of yours right where it is. This obsessive streak of yours is going to get everyone hurt.” 

Dean stays silent, inwardly cursing his damned brother’s insight. Sam sighs wearily, standing up and taking one last drink of his coffee. 

He starts loading his messenger bag up with his stuff. “Get some sleep; we can talk about it later. Just, please do _not_ forget that you are going to the charity ball tonight. Don’t make that face, Dean, it’s _your_ charity. Besides, it’ll be fun; drink some expensive beer, make fun of the mayor, convince conservative assholes give money to fund our clinics.” 

Sam claps Dean on the arm as he goes by, and then everything is quiet. All at once, the last six strings of long nights and early mornings take their toll, and he shuffles up to his bedroom, dropping clothing on the floor as he goes. 

All he can think about is how Castiel’s room smelled. The man himself had stunk of the night; blood, the ground in the alley, and whatever men he had been with, but his room had smelled of skin, incense, and paint. His room had been intimate in a way that he couldn’t possibly communicate using words; it felt as if he had been inside the other man’s mind. 

In the grip of passion, he had stolen one of Castiel’s shirts and hidden it under his own. He removes it and falls down onto the bed, face first. Propping himself up on his elbows, he shoves his face into the shirt, inhaling deeply and allowing the smell to surround him. It is a heady mix of his own scent and Castiel’s, and it makes him hard. He ruts against the mattress, ashamed and horrified, but unable to stop himself. His hands clench around the shirt as his hips rock in a relentless rhythm; he is so close, so fast, and it feels too good. His face is buried in the shirt so completely that he can barely breathe, but he doesn’t care. He would happily suffocate if he could just spend his last minutes wrapped in this smell. He comes violently, gasping for air. 

** 

Castiel should probably leave town. He should not have even come back to his damn apartment, because they obviously know where he lives. Walking back into his building had been strange. Not only did he not get harassed for rent, the super had been pleasant and slightly deferential which was very weird. He locked his door, leaning against it with a sigh. As shitty as his place was, it was home. Fuck it; he didn’t have any place else to go. This is what happens when you get involved, and he should have just left well enough alone. 

He kicks his shoes off and pads to his kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and his laptop. He sits down on the floor in front of his bed and turns the bottle over. In the depression beneath it is taped a usb drive that he frees and inserts into the machine. Unscrewing the cap and taking a healthy swig, he looks for the millionth time at the documents on it. Sighing, he thumps his head against the mattress. 

“Castiel, what the fuck are you doing?” he grumbles. Just in case, he sends the entire lot to his cloud storage, thumping his laptop closed and pushing it away. He scrubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Outside, it begins to storm, rain lashing against the window, making the lights flicker. 

His eyes widen. He strips, dropping his clothing into a haphazard pile, looking at the hospital tag on his wrist and tugging ineffectually at it. He leaves it with a shrug, the goal to get out onto the fire escape into the driving rain eclipsing it for now. A loud peal of laughter rips from him as he lifts his face into the wet, arms outstretched to catch the rain. He never sees the dark shape watching him from the opposite roof top. Not then, or when he goes back inside to paint and drink by candlelight, or when he passes out from exhaustion and drink just before dawn. 

*** 

“Dean, did you buy some random apartment building?” Sam peers at his brother over the top of his glasses, leaning back from the laptop. 

Dean, shoulders deep in the fridge, makes a triumphant noise and emerges with the orange juice. “I have to wonder, when you have that magnificent office, why you’re doing our books in the kitchen.” 

Sam rubs the bridge of his nose. “Same reason you won’t hire servants. Dean, seriously?” 

Dean drinks out of the carton, waggling his brows at his brother. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Yes, I did.” 

“So, are you a slum lord now, or what?” Sam asks, taking the opportunity get up and stretch. He fills his mug again and watches his brother carefully. 

Dean leans against the counter. “Was there a problem when I didn’t show up to the ball?” 

Sam rolls his eyes, “Actually no. I had this hunch that you might forget, or have something better to do, like creepily watch over your rent-boy all night. Did they come back for him?” 

Dean shakes his head. “No. They will leave it alone for a few weeks, I think. Eventually I’ll have to leave him, and then they can strike, so we’re going to figure out why they want him so badly. It could be a key to destroying Lucifer’s hold on the city.” 

Sam smirks on the way back to the table. “Sure thing, Dean, he’s probably really important, and not a hot piece of ass that upset Lucifer while he was fucking him. You know how sensitive that guy…Dean!” 

Sam tries to dodge in the split second before Dean has him by a fistful of shirt and tie, turning and slamming him against the fridge. Sam’s mug falls and shatters to the ground, hot coffee splashing all over Dean’s legs, but he doesn’t seem to register the burn. For a long moment, Dean stares into Sam’s eyes; his other fist pulled back and set to punch his brother in the face. He can feel every one of Sam’s muscles tensed as he struggles not to fight back. 

Sam clears his throat, staring back at Dean. A bead of sweat travels down his temple. Dean can feel the wild pulse in his brother’s neck. 

“You promised to leave this shit with the costume.” Sam manages to keep his voice calm. “Either break your promise and kill me, or let me go.” 

Dean’s fist flies, punching a hole in the wall next to the fridge, pain lancing through the fury. With a whimper, he lets Sam go and covers his head with his arms, plastering himself against the destroyed wall. His blood thunders in his ears and the mark is an angry red slash throbbing against his skin. 

Sam gathers himself together, watching Dean. They spend a quiet minute while Dean concentrates on breathing and Sam waits to see if he is going to need to run. 

Eventually Sam rests a shaky hand gently between Dean’s shoulder blades. “Go spend some time in the costume. Work on the Lucifer problem. Stalk your boy, but don’t forget what he is. Anyone could have him.” 

Dean mumbles into the wall, “Anyone but me, you mean.” 

Sam sighs. “It wouldn’t look good. Gay is one thing, Dean, we can spin that and we knew we’d have to one day. But gay for a…we’d lose a lot of contributors to our charities. Homeless kids, Dean.” 

Dean bangs his head on the wall, none too gently. Maybe if he hits it hard enough, it won’t be a problem anymore. 

Sam gets another mug from the cabinet. He cannot keep it from trembling. Staring at the coffee pot, he says, “Look, the Winchester annual fundraiser is at the end of the month. You _have_ to be there for that, it secures a lot of money for the homeless children’s foundation, and I do not care what kind of a crush you have on this guy, leave it alone for one night. Maybe we can figure something out after that.” 

Dean nods curtly, stalking out of the kitchen. Sam is shouting something about getting Kevin to look at his hand, but it doesn’t seem to matter. 

** 

Over the last month, Castiel had seen The Righteous Man lurking in the darkness on the roof opposite his building almost every night. It was both nerve-wracking, but it sent a thrill up his spine. He started painting naked more often (with the shades up), and he had more time to do it too; for some reason every one of his clients began to cancel. At this rate, he’d have to go back to standing on the corner, even if his super had stopped asking for rent. 

One long night, he’d consumed a bottle of wine as he slowly stripped every item of clothing off, staring pointedly outwards. When he went to bed, he left the window open and the pile of clothing on the fire escape. When he awoke, purple Orchids filled the empty bottle. He never did get any of those clothes back. 

Tonight, about business he wants to avoid, he finds himself wishing he could trust that the vigilante was on the right side, and not just obsessed with him. Then he could avoid going through with this stupid plan tomorrow night. He needs a cigarette, and he has a few minutes before he’s needed, so he steps into the dark alley behind the shop and lights one. The flame of his lighter reflects in a pair of sleek wrap around glasses, unnervingly close to him. 

All his muscles tense, but he forces himself to act nonchalant, taking in a long shaky drag of his cigarette. 

The shadow growls, “This tailor works for Lucifer. Are you back in his good graces?” 

Castiel coughs out a laugh, a plume of smoke curling around his head. “My God, he hates that nickname. If he knew you called him that, he would rupture something. This tailor works for many people, but right now, he is doing me a favor. I need a free suit, and he needs…” he trails off a little, eyeing his stalker’s shoulders and the way he has clenched a gloved fist. 

They stand in silence and stare at each other. Castiel takes a step closer, and the masked man takes a hasty step back into the darkness of the alley, which seems to reach out and swallow him, making him bigger somehow. Less human. 

He flicks the cigarette away. His skin has started to prickle and crawl. “Look, man, what do you want? It isn’t that I’m not flattered to have the city’s creepiest vigilante stalking me, but you have to have something better to do. I am really not that interesting.” 

“I disagree,” the velvet soft voice rumbles, “Castiel Novak, what are you hiding? I know you have some kind of information on Lucifer that you are hiding from him. Give it to me. Now.” 

Castiel flinches, falling back against the door, fumbling with the doorknob behind him, willing it to be unlocked. Fuck, it is not. 

A predatory chuckle comes from the dark. He is instantly hard as a rock, and later he will have to try to untangle that, but not now, now he _needs to run_. He’s going to have to go around the man to get to the front of the building. Where the light is. Where the darkness doesn’t feel like it a tangible thing pressing against him. He starts edging in the right direction, one hand reaching into the pocket of his jeans for his phone. 

“I’m not hiding anything,” Castiel says, “Just an artist, trying to get by.” Then he runs, using the phone to light the ground, hoping not to trip on garbage or a rat before he gets to the street. 

He gets most of the way down the alley before he’s lifted up bodily and pushed against a wall. His cellphone goes tumbling, green light crazily spinning around and illuminating part of his attacker’s face. A disconnected part of his mind thinks that the Righteous Man has some amazing lips. 

The Righteous Man holds him in place; one arm pinning both of Castiel’s above his head, his long lean body a solid inescapable line of muscle pressing Castiel into the wall. With his other hand, he starts rummaging through pockets, and teasing up under his shirt. The vigilante smells like heaven, and he is just as hard as Castiel is. A moan escapes him before he can do anything about it. 

The Righteous Man pauses. 

Leaning down to nose at Castiel’s neck and jaw, he whispers, “Tell me what it is, beautiful, and I can help you. Come on, sweetheart. You don’t need to be scared of him.” 

He rocks his hips down, grinding against Castiel. Helplessly, Castiel laughs, dizzy with arousal and the way the man smells. Castiel’s body is one long line of tension as he refuses to respond. 

The Righteous Man kisses his throat, and then up the side of his neck, biting harder with each moan ripped from Castiel. He continues fuck against Castiel, panting into Castiel’s ear. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, Castiel,” He whispers, “I saw you that night on your fire escape. I know you want this. You know you belong to me. Let go, sweetheart, come for me. ” 

Castiel pants, aching to kiss him; he tries to turn his head to gain access to those amazing lips and gets a strong warning bite on his neck instead that sends a dark thrill down his spine. He’s so close, maddeningly close. He breaks, unable to keep himself from moving now, bucking and chasing his own pleasure. The vigilante hisses, yanking his glove off his free hand with his teeth and flinging it on the ground impatiently. He pushes his hot palm up Castiel’s shirt, one thumb rubbing against a nipple in firm circles. He arches against his captor’s body, coming with a strangled whimper while the other man shudders against him, pressing feverish kisses against his jaw. 

They both pant there for a moment, but Castiel can feel The Righteous Man’s attention again, waiting. Fuck it; he can tell what he knows and still do what he needs to tomorrow. 

“When I took him as a client,” Castiel whispers, eyes closed, “I knew who Nick was, but I didn’t have a choice, and I didn’t care at any rate. It wasn’t any of my business, he paid the bills, and getting involved was trouble I didn’t need. 

“One night though, there was something Nick had to do, and he left me alone. So I snooped, because I’m stupid. I found …I mean, it was all in code, but it was so easy to crack. You wouldn’t believe how many companies he owns, I mean he even owns a bicycle repair shop, how random is tha…” 

The Righteous man shakes him a little, and Castiel’s babbling cuts off. “He owns a laundry that does jobs for the Winchester Orphanages. He’s stealing kids from there and selling them. I don’t even know why I backed all that stuff up and took it.” 

“Yes, you do,” The Righteous Man says, though his voice sounds strained. “Why not bring this to the police? Why hold on to it?” 

Castiel sighs, “I thought at first that I would blackmail Dean Winchester. He has more money than God. Then I realized, the more I looked at it, that the poor man has no clue. So I brought the drive to the police, but they laughed at me. And then Nick’s men tried to kill me.” 

The Righteous Man drops Castiel and pulls himself up to his full height. The blackness of the alleyway seems to shift around him menacingly, reaching for Castiel as if to devour him. He holds out the ungloved hand demandingly. 

Castiel shakes his head, shrinking as far back as he can. Confusion, fear, and desire war for dominance on his face. “I d..don’t have it. Please don’t hurt me. I hid it. I can... I can give it to you tomorrow.” 

A low growl reverberates through the darkness. Castiel falls into a crouch and covers his head as The Righteous Man lunges forward. Curled into a ball, he registers the other man grabbing his glove from the ground beside him, and then a purr of sound ghosts across his skin. “Tomorrow night or I will come looking, beautiful. You do not want me to do that. Be good.” 

Castiel knows he is gone because the night feels flat and close, as if he has taken all the air with him. 

** 

Dean pulls at the bow tie around his neck irritably. Sam had ridden him hard about not missing this thing, to the point of showing up early that day and not leaving his side until they’d left the limo. At least he has late tonight. He looks forward to seeing his fallen angel. Something is off tonight, something in his awareness making him itchy and his mark throb. Eventually Sam irritably banishes him to the bar, telling him to get a drink already. 

Dean leans against the bar, ignoring the bartender and watching his brother navigate through the crowd. He never tires of watching how his brother works people like a giant friendly puppy with a law degree, prizing money out of the city’s most notoriously horrible and tight-fisted millionaires. The change in Sam’s face makes Dean’s body bowstring tense. No one else would have noticed it, but to Dean it was as good as shouting. Something was wrong. Following his gaze, he sees Lucifer here with a pair of beefy bodyguards. On his arm is Castiel. 

His legs move on their own, and he is standing in front of Lucifer before he knows what he is about to do. Sam’s swift movement towards them registers in his peripheral vision, but he focuses his gaze down to one set of beautiful blue eyes. Drawing up to the pair, he smiles a shark’s smile, leading with his right hand. 

“Nick! What a delight to see you!” Dean shakes his hand vigorously. “This thing is always so full of stiffs, I’m suffocating over here.” 

He shifts his gaze from Nick to look at Castiel. “I’m Dean Winchester. You must be Nick’s date.” 

Castiel is holding himself strangely, favoring one side over the other, and Dean can see the shadow of a bruise covered in make up just under his eye. Whatever he sees in Dean’s face makes him catch his breath and step back. Dean slowly looks up at Nick, who slips an arm around Castiel’s waist possessively and just smiles. 

Sam is suddenly there, breathless as if he’s run across the entire room. He links arms firmly with Dean and smiles at Nick. “Mr. Milton, I beg your pardon, I need to borrow my brother” 

Dean knocks into someone else as Sam manhandles him, alcohol spilling all over him. 

Sam growls through grit teeth. “Go to the back bathroom and clean up. Take a minute to chill while you’re in there. You can’t be that intense here, you’ll set yourself off.” 

He turns Dean and shoves him. Dean goes, growling under his breath. 

The bathroom is deserted. His shirt and the jacket is a loss, so he just sits on the counter, sleeves rolled up, rolling his cufflinks in his hands. He feels calmer, but doesn’t really want to go back out there. Too crowded, too much _Nick_ to keep his cool. 

A wild-eyed Castiel slips through the door, looking behind him as it closes. Dean drops off the counter carefully, and they lock eyes. An electric thrill goes down his spine, and all the hairs on his arms stand on end. 

Castiel comes towards him, words piling out in a torrent, “Mr. Winchester, I have something to tell you, it’s really important, please you need to hear me. It’s about Nick, um, Mr. Milton, please, I don’t have much time…” 

The door bangs open, and two men barge through. One is a wall of meat and muscle and the other is a weasel. Dean gathers his suit coat in his hands quietly, looking between them both. 

Castiel backs himself across the length of the bathroom, arms held up, “He can’t have it. I don’t have it any more. I gave it to The Righteous Man, so you can both fuck off.” 

The weasel sighs. “You could have saved yourself. Now we have to deal with you and Mr. Swanky here.” 

Dean holds up his hand, “Don’t I get a say in this?” 

The Weasel turns towards him sarcastically, and Dean punches him in the face. As he staggers back, Meathead launches himself at Dean, who catches his fist with his suit coat, and twists. He twists, and doesn’t hold back. The lights start flickering. Dean puts all his strength into it, grinning up at The Weasel as he hears a chilling crack come from Meathead’s arm. One of the lights explodes in a shower of sparks. Then he lets go. Meathead is crying and howling, and The Weasel, staring at Dean with superstitious awe, drags him out of the bathroom. 

Dean spins around and finds Castiel pressed up against the back wall, staring at him. No, staring at his arm, just under the rolled up sleeve, where the mark pulses, red and angry. His predatory smile gains a certain edge. 

“It’s you,” Castiel whispers. 

Dean crowds into his space, placing a proprietary kiss on his lips. Castiel wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, back pressed to the wall. The rest of the lights explode, showering the room in sparks, plunging them into darkness. 

Dean whispers into Castiel’s ear, “Now I can never let you go.” 

Castiel’s laugh is wild, “Good. Bring me home.” 

Sam is going to kill him in the morning.


End file.
